John Hemry: A Just Determination

"Who's left?"

Carl chuckled. "Dazed and confused, huh? Think about it, Paul. Who haven't you seen yet?"

"Umm… oh. The Captain."

"Right-o. So let's go see your new lord and master."

The Captain's cabin was located not far from the bridge of the Michaelson. Carl paused before the hatch, indicating the letters spelling out P. C. Wakeman on it, then rapped and waited. At the sound of a gruff "Enter," Carl swung the hatch open and gestured Paul inward.

Captain Wakeman, sitting before his desk in a stateroom that appeared slightly larger than that occupied by Commander Herdez, squinted at Paul as if examining an unwelcome pest. "Yes?"

Paul came to attention and rendered his best salute. "Ensign Paul Sinclair, reporting for duty, sir."

"Oh. Hmmm." Wakeman fiddled with his desk terminal for a few moments, scowling. "Your record's supposed to be in here. Why isn't your record in here? You checked in with ship's office, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, they didn't put your record in here." Wakeman glowered at Paul, then with an apparent effort relaxed his face into a semblance of camaraderie. "But we'll take care of that later. Welcome aboard, Mr… uh…"

"Sinclair, sir. Paul Sinclair."

"Yes. Of course. Ah, Academy? Good. Good." Brief smiles flickered across the Captain's face, coming and going in a manner which suggested nervous twitches. "Well, let me tell you, this is a great opportunity for you. Outstanding. Lots of visibility. Chances to excel. But you have to be a team player. Are you a team player, Mr…?"

"Sinclair, sir. Yes, sir."

"Sinclair. Right. The team. That's important. And you know who the captain of your team is?"

"Uh… you, sir."

Wakeman nodded vigorously. "Right. Right. And you, you're a blocker. And a tackle. You tackle problems before they become problems. You block bad attitudes and bad morale. Because you're a team player."

"Yes, sir."

"Visibility. Yes." Wakeman relaxed slightly, leaning back and gazing upward. "Opportunity. That's good. Opportunity to succeed." He sat silent for a long moment, lost in a reverie, while Paul waited and tried not to show any sign of impatience until Wakeman abruptly focused his attention back on Paul. "Well. Welcome aboard."

It took Paul a few seconds, until Captain Wakeman frowned in displeasure, to realize he'd been dismissed. Paul hastily saluted again. "Thank you, sir." He closed the hatch carefully as he exited, afraid he might bang it shut and draw the Captain's wrath, then saw Meadows eyeing him. "Is he always like that?"

"Cap'n Pete? Oh, yeah." For the first time since Paul had met him, Meadows let his feelings for another officer show. "He talk to you about visibility?" Paul nodded. "Being on his team?" Another nod. "Be careful, Paul. Just try to watch your step."

"But what-?"

"I don't know. He's the Captain. That's all there is to it. Come on, let's see if we can run down Jan Tweed for you." Half an hour later, after several frustrating attempts to locate Lieutenant Tweed, Carl was called away to handle something pertaining to the ship's weaponry. Paul, left to his own resources, wandered through the ship, repeatedly losing his way and encountering officers and enlisted who eyed him with curiosity. He was standing before a large hatch with No Entry-Authorized Personnel Only stenciled on it in large letters when a familiar voice interrupted him. "Mr. Sinclair?"

Paul turned, seeing the senior chief who'd first brought him on board. The joy of seeing even that small familiarity caused a wave of relief to wash through him. "Yes, Senior Chief. How's it going?"

"Could be worse, sir. I been looking for you, but you've been moving around a lot." The senior chief eased back, indicating his companion. "First Class Master-at-Arms Ivan Sharpe, Mr. Sinclair. Being as you're the new legal officer, I knew you two should get together."

"Thanks, Senior Chief." Paul extended his hand even as the master-at-arms did the same. "Pleased to meet you, Petty Officer Sharpe."

Sharpe looked Paul over carefully while he shook Paul's hand. "Looking forward to working with you, sir."

The senior chief leaned forward, commanding attention immediately. "Sheriff Sharpe's a good petty officer, Mr. Sinclair. You can count on him. I gotta go handle some work, now."

"Thanks again, Senior Chief," Paul called after his retreating back, then faced Sharpe again. "Sheriff?"

Sharpe spread his hands, grinning fiercely. "A man's got to have his handle, sir. And I am sheriff of this here town."

"What's that make the legal officer? The town judge?"

Sheriff Sharpe shook his head. "Commander Herdez is judge and jury around here, Mr. Sinclair."

"Judge and jury? Then where's the Captain come in?"

"The Captain?" Sharpe kept his expression carefully noncommittal. "The Captain is God, sir."

Paul opened his eyes, staring blearily upward through the darkness at the dim images of ducts which seemed only inches from his nose. The shrill whine of the bosun's pipe echoed through the ship's intercom, its trilling notes gradually dying out. A moment later, a voice rapidly recited the words that officially began every day on every ship. "Reveille, reveille. All hands turn to and trice up. The smoking lamp is lit."

Paul lay still, unwilling to rise. There isn't any smoking lamp. There hasn't been a smoking lamp for who knows how long, and even if there were a smoking lamp people, haven't been allowed to smoke on ships for who knows how long. But every day we say we light the lamp in the morning and put it out at night. The Navy. Centuries of tradition unmarred by progress.

A groan from somewhere in the Ensign Locker announced one of his roommates rolling out his bunk. A moment later, a desk light flickered to life, bringing more groans from the other occupants of the stateroom. "Put it out, man."

"Sorry. Got to see if they fixed the port power distribution net last night. Hey, who had the mid-watch last night?"

Paul closed his eyes again even as he answered. "I did." The midwatch ran from midnight to 0400 in the morning, leaving little room for sleep on either side of it. Paul had spent most of the watch trying to stay awake, a task made slightly easier by the need to keep from dropping the long glass, the telescope which had to be carried by the officer of the deck.

"Did any contractors come on board?"

"Uh, no. A couple left, but no new ones came on."

"Damn! They don't give us enough technicians because they claim outside contractors can do the work, then they don't give us contractors! Damn!" The hatch swung open, then slammed shut as Ensign Sam Yarrow stormed out. Paul looked blankly at the closed hatch, trying to remember Yarrow's face. They'd crossed paths repeatedly in the last couple of days, but only for moments at a time, and every event somehow merged into the haze of too much happening too fast. He still didn't have any real personal impression of the fellow ensign he'd been warned against.

A heavy double-rap sounded, then the hatch swung open again and Commander Garcia stuck his head inside. "Sinclair!"

Paul hastily rolled out of his bunk, barely avoiding whacking his head on a support bracket, and stood facing his department head, still blinking against the light and hoping his guilt at being caught in his bunk didn't show. "Sir."

"Where's Tweed?"

"Lieutenant Tweed? I… I don't know, sir." And how the hell am I supposed to know right now? It's not like I'm sleeping with her. And if I was, I'd really be in trouble.

"Find her! Find her and then the two of you find me! Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The hatch crashed shut, leaving the stateroom dim once more. Carl Meadows yawned. "Have a nice day, sir," he advised the hatch, then rolled out of his own bunk. "Hey, Paul. Welcome aboard."